Page 117 of Sinful
Tall fencing extending in both directions as far as I can see.
This isn't just a ranch. This is a fortress.
This is where he is.
I pull up to the gate and kill the engine.
My hands are shaking.
A prospect emerges from a small guard shack I didn't notice at first.
Young guy, maybe nineteen, Shotgun Saints prospect patch on his cut.
Tattoos covering his forearms.
Cautious expression. Hand resting near his hip where I'm guessing there's a weapon.
"Can I help you?" His voice is polite but firm.
I pull off my helmet, shake out my hair.
"I'm looking for Bravos."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Who's asking?"
This is it. The moment where I claim it. Where I stop running and start choosing.
I take a breath.
"I'm Bravos' ol' lady."
The words feel terrifying and true and right all at once.
The prospect's eyebrows shoot up. Shock clear on his face. His patch says Ford.
"Hiswhat?"
"His ol' lady." I meet his eyes. "Can you let me in?"
Ford stares at me like I just announced I'm the Queen of England. "Bravos has an ol' lady?"
"As of about two seconds ago, yeah."
He's still staring and I'm still waiting.
The moment stretches.
Then Ford reaches for the radio clipped to his belt, brings it to his mouth, eyes never leaving my face.
"Uh, Phantom? We've got a situation at the gate..."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bravos
The converted barn that serves as Sharp Shooter's main clubhouse smells like leather cleaner, manure, and stale beer.
Maps are spread across every surface. Weapons inventory sheets. Communications equipment being tested and retested.
